


Nice is Different than Good

by samalander



Series: Better Than Silence [2]
Category: Marvel (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Again, Doggy Style, F/M, Fingerfucking, Gym Sex, Oral Sex, Public Sex, oops i spilled feels on this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-27
Updated: 2014-01-27
Packaged: 2018-01-10 05:28:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1155654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/samalander/pseuds/samalander
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint seeks her out this time, and Natasha thinks he probably deserves what he gets.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nice is Different than Good

**Author's Note:**

  * For [enigma731](https://archiveofourown.org/users/enigma731/gifts).



> This is a sequel to "[What the Beauty Is](http://archiveofourown.org/works/773713)," but no knowledge of that is required to read this.
> 
>  
> 
> _Do not put your faith_  
>  _In a cape and a hood,_  
>  _They will not protect you_  
>  _The way that they should._  
>  _And take extra care with strangers,_  
>  _Even flowers have their dangers._  
>  _And though scary is exciting,_  
>  _Nice is different than good._

She's in the gym when he finds her, sweat beading salty-slick on her forehead as she concentrates on her handstand. Clint doesn't say anything, just lounges against the doorframe and waits. He's the very definition of casual, the kind of casual that's just a hair too practiced and perfect to actually pass as anything but studied and stilted.

Natasha takes her time on the dismount. She's been on the beam for hours, drilling agility moves, and her muscles are just starting to burn.

"Hi," she says, when she's right-side up again, her feet finally on the floor.

"Hi," Clint replies, not moving from his spot. He's trying so hard, she thinks, diligently protecting himself with the illusion of relaxation. He has tells, of course, everyone has tells, and Natasha can read the lust on his face as if it were a Times Square billboard.

( _Buy Things. Watch Television. Sleep With Me._ )

"Wanna fuck?" she asks, taking a swallow of water. "Or are you here on business?"

Clint regards her for a moment, his sniper's eyes always searching out any flaw, any minuscule crack in her armor. She wonders what he sees.

"Yes," he says, his voice heavy and his eyes darkening with lust as he turns to lock the door behind him. "I very much would like to fuck."

Natasha raises an eyebrow and uses the hem of her tank top to wipe her brow. "Here?" she asks, well aware of the skin she's showing him and the effect it has on him. The effect she means for it to have.

He smiles, lupine and somehow sweet. "You like the idea of getting caught?"

The chatter is boring, she decides. She'd rather do him than talk to him, and they're both too good at this game to give anything away in words. So she crosses to the door in three long strides and lifts herself onto her tiptoes to kiss his lying mouth.

Clint reacts like she's electric, like she's fire and ice, like she hit him instead of kissing him. But he recovers, shrugging the shock off in only a moment and catching her hips in a vice-like grip, his fingertips burning hot like brands. She lets him lift her, wrapping her legs around his waist as he turns and pushes her back against the wall, lowering his mouth to hers and kissing her like he's starving for it.

Natasha tosses her head back, bumping it against the wall to bare her neck, but she doesn't care, because his lips are on her skin, and they both know that they're here because they want this, because they both want this, and because he seeks her out.

She'd never admit it to anyone, least of all Clint, but she likes him. She likes his focus and his wit, likes that he doesn't take himself overly seriously, that he knows this is all a game, and that it's one they're all losing. So she gives herself over to him, lets him lick the salt from her neck and rewards him with a moan when he bites down on her pulse point, pleasure spiking through her.

Making out with him is fun; it's always been fun. Clint is the kind of kisser who keeps it interesting, who's been with enough partners to know what he's doing. And Natasha is a professional. She thinks one day she'll make him come just from kissing. But not today. Today she wants to fuck as badly as he does, her body betraying her as she ruts against him, seeking friction against her clit even as he holds her still.

"Clint," she breathes, her voice reedy. He grins up at her, bearing his teeth. He's dangerous, she knows he is. She's seen him kill and fight and do the kind of things that _good_ people don't do, all the things she thought made her a monster. But she wants his hands, his killing hands, on her body, she wants his deceitful tongue to trace patterns across her skin, wants him to take and take until she can't give anymore.

He's still grinning at her, their eyes locked. He's laughing, she realizes, though his arousal. He wants her and he thinks she's hilarious. "Want something?" he asks, finally.

"I was thinking about getting your dick in my mouth," she says. "But if you want to keep kissing, we can do that, too."

A growl escapes his throat, and he bites the hollow of her throat before letting his hold on her thighs drop. She laughs, joy and sex and something she doesn't know how to name flooding her senses. But she doesn't waste any time, dropping to her knees and undoing his pants, palming his dick through the thin fabric of his boxers.

"You always get so hard for me," she coos, treacly and cloying. "You're such a good boy."

Clint rolls his eyes, which she totally deserves. "Suck or get off the floor," he snaps, his hips canting slightly into her grip, betraying his desire again. She decides to reward him, leaning in to nuzzle his thigh as she pulls his pants the rest of the way down to his ankles, taking the boxers with them. He steps out of them, toeing off his shoes, and his erection slips free, bobbing in front of her face.

She smiles up at him. "Now," she pouts. "What was it? Suck or--"

He grows in his throat, so Natasha wraps her hand around his dick, relishing the soft sigh that escapes his lips as she touches him. She glances up through her eyelashes, smiling coyly. His head is tossed back his jaw clenched tight, and Natasha feels a stab of something in her chest. "How long?" she asks. "How long since someone sucked your dick?"

"A week," he breathes, glancing down. She doesn't react, opting instead to pump her hand a little, leaning forward to run the sharp tip of her tongue around the velvety head. 

"Was it me?" she asks, running her hand back to palm his balls softly, eliciting another grunt from him.

"Yes," he pants. "You're-- I'm not sleeping with anyone else right now."

Natasha likes that answer. She likes that Clint is hers and no one else's, and she decides to reward him for the show of good faith by licking a broad stripe up the bottom of his cock before wrapping her lips around the head and sucking gently.

He makes another desperate noise and fists his hands in her hair, making her scalp burn pleasantly. She hums her approval, letting her mouth sink down the length of him, giving him the vibrations and the wet heat of her mouth. She loves this, she thinks, loves the power she gets when she's on her knees, making a man keen and wail with such minimal effort. Not that Clint keens or wails - he's too good for that, too practiced in silence to give that up. But that's all right; it gives her a goal, makes her hungry for her name on his lips.

She uses her tongue to trace Cyrillic letters across the taut skin of his dick, savoring the taste of his precome, the salt of his skin. She glances up, still using her hand to tease his balls, and he's smiling down at her in a way that takes her breath away, makes her need to sit back on her heels.

His smile is something else she's grown fond of, the way it says so many different things without ever being overt. The way he can use it to tease, to taunt her, to catch her off-guard. She thinks she's never known another man who can do that, who can knock her off her game with the quirk of his lip.

He cocks an eyebrow; trying and failing to look sardonic about the loss of her mouth, landing instead somewhere near desperate and disappointed. "Done?" he asks, his grin coming back. "Cause I'm not."

Natasha rolls her eyes and shifts her hips, stretching out her legs on the mat and sliding her workout pants down her thighs and off. She catches his eyes and holds them as she slides and single finger up her thigh to her cunt.

His nimble eyes are wide, taking in the inches of her exposed skin. She drags the finger through the wetness at the junction of her thighs and lifts it to her mouth, licking her taste from her fingers lewdly. "Not done," she says, her voice smoky and dark. "But you see better from a distance, right?"

"Evil," he breathes, surging down to catch her mouth with his, to chase her taste across her tongue. Two of his fingers find her cunt and slide in, solid and reassuring, wresting a breathy gasp from her chest.

He plays her body like an instrument, like it's a piece of art. No one else has ever brought her to where Clint takes her, his desperate need to please and his cruel mouth taking her far past the edge every time. She wonders how, sometimes, what he has over other people she's been with, but if there's a reason, it escapes her at the best of times, and it's downright nonexistent when he's got two fingers inside of her and one on her clit.

Natasha gasps again and moans, rolling her hips, which Clint takes as an invitation to pinch her nipple, hard, through her tank top. She hisses at the pain, but takes it gladly. There are times when she questions how far she'd let him go; how much pain would she take before stopping him? But he's never found the line, and she's willing to ride it out, to take what he gives-- what she can get-- and be grateful.

"Where are you?" he asks, his breath hot on the skin of her stomach, his fingers crooked to brush against the spot that curls her toes.

"Thinking about pain," she breathes, shocked at her own honesty. 

"Good pain or bad?" he asks, gently nosing up her body, inspiring her to lift the hem of her tank top and sports bra over her head and off so he can have better access to her tits. She gasps as he squeezes one before sucking a nipple into his mouth.

Natasha studies his face, his eyes locked on hers as the pleasure rises in her gut, the wave building and ready to crest. "Wondering," she grits. "How far you'd go-- how far I'd-- _fuck_ let you go."

"Want me to hurt you?" he asks, nipping the soft flesh of her tit. "Want me to make you cry?"

"Like you could?"

Clint grins and redoubles his efforts, sliding a third finger into her and working her clit. He alternates sucking her nipples and teasing his sharp teeth across the pert buds, bringing her to the edge again and again, ebbing and flowing like she's the tide to his moon.

She whimpers, gritting his name out and he laughs, an almost mean sound that sends a shiver through her entire body. He starts kissing back down her body, lingering on the curve of her hips, stopping to run his tongue over the contours of her abs before leaning his head down to scrape his teeth over her clit. She comes with a strangled shout, clamping down on his fingers and rolling her hips, desperate for more friction than she can get from his fingers.

"Clint," she pants, as she comes back to herself. His fingers are still inside her, his thumb sending aftershocks through her body as it irregularly grazes her clit. Her forehead is dewy and her thighs are shaking, but she swallows and finds her voice. "Clint, I'm gonna need you to fuck me."

"Oh?" he asks, still grinning at her like the cat that ate the canary as he pulls his shirt over his head. "Is that what you need?"

Natasha is nothing if not perceptive, and even in her post-orgasmic state, and she knows what he wants, what he's always wanted. He never asks, though. She rolls onto her knees adroitly, the muscles responding like clockwork, like the machine she was meant to be.

"I know what you want," she breathes, his fingers sliding out of her as she turns her back to him, slipping down onto her hands and knees. She hears him gasp at the fact that she's going to let him do this, let him take her from behind. Usually she insists on being on top, taking the power from him as much as she can, but for some reason today she's feeling generous, feeling like letting him have a little of what he wants.

Clint touches her softly, almost sweetly, a hand caressing the swell of her ass.

"Have I been a bad girl?" she asks, peering over her shoulder to find his face an utter wreck.

"So bad," he says, taking his hand from her flank for a moment before bringing it down again, an almost gentle slap. "Fuck," he breathes. "I-- fuck."

He doesn't say anything else, just gives her another few half-hearted smacks before gripping her hips. His fingers are pressing bruises into her skin, she can feel it, and she bites her lip as he thrusts into her. 

"Clint," she breathes. "Fuck me, Clint."

He takes the words to heart, setting up a rhythm quickly, his hips slamming into her with a brutal intensity. She knows she'll feel it for a few days, knows she'll be wearing the marks of his love when this is over, like a map of what they've done and where they've been.

He slips a hand under her, finding her clit again and scraping the sharp edge of his nail over it, causing her to curse in the onslaught of pleasure-pain. She cants her hips back to meet his thrusts, drinking in the sounds of his grunts and soft sighs as he fucks her earnestly, fully, with the kind of focus he gives his targets, his marks.

She can't take it, the unbridled gorgeousness of Clint's desire hurts her heart, makes her desperate in a way she doesn't understand. She pulls off him, turning like a cyclone and lunging forward to pin his shoulders against the mat. He whines at the loss of her cunt, the lack of friction, but she doesn't care, she has other plans. 

She kneels between his knees, wrapping her hand around his prick and sinking her mouth down on it, savoring the slightly salty sheen of her arousal that clings to his skin. He reaches out and tangles one hand in her hair, but lets her work, lets her go at her own pace as she bobs her head, taking him deep into her throat and moaning, letting the vibrations carry through his body as he curses and his hips thrust up, her name like a filthy prayer on his lips.

Her free hand roams his body, tweaking a nipple and then running, soft and filthy, down his chest to cup his balls and press a knuckle behind them.

"I'm-- Natasha, please. I'm close," he whines, his fingers tightening, but she doesn't stop, doesn't even slow down as his hips falter and lose their rhythm and he comes undone. She swallows as he comes, keeping her mouth sealed around him, keeping him under her control as long as she can. She doesn't ever know what to do in the afterwards, when he reaches for her and every inch of her training screams that he is helpless now, he is weak and this is her time.

She pushes herself back, finding her leggings and top, pulling them on with her preternatural speed, fully dressed again before Clint can even open his eyes, her senses returned while he still lies prone, vulnerable.

"Wait," he croaks. "Natasha, don't--"

She winces but turns back, letting her mask slide back on, the mask she wears around everyone, the mask she hates to use on Clint, but she has to, she has to do something to protect him from his own idiotic trust.

"Thanks," she says, not meeting his eyes. "I'll-- have a good day, Clint. Okay?"

She lets the facade drop for a moment, looks up and meets his gaze for a split second. It hurts, it burns like her veins are on fire, the way he looks at her. She can't deal, she can't let him feel that for her, let him need her.

"Okay?" she asks again, letting frost creep into her voice. He says something, but she doesn't turn back. One of them has to protect him from the monster inside of her, and he can't seem to protect himself so she shoves her feet into her shoes and strides with purpose into the locker room.

Natasha doesn't even bother to strip, just strides into the empty showers, turns the water on cold and prays that no one hears as she slams a fist into the wall. She feels her skin split as the tile breaks, and she watches the blood swirl and run down the drain.


End file.
